


Know Thyself

by MaySparrow



Series: if you love me, love all of me [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beelzebub was a Cherub before falling, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Gen, Good Omens Kink Meme, demons don't remember Heaven fully, it's really not that important to know that tbh its just an excuse to throw more gay angst in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-02-01 07:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21439777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaySparrow/pseuds/MaySparrow
Summary: In the beginning, there were only angels. Some knew each other better than others.Aziraphale's old friend went on to become a Prince of Hell.Written for the Good Omens kink meme.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Beelzebub, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: if you love me, love all of me [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534586
Comments: 5
Kudos: 97
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Know Thyself

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Kink Meme.  
Find the prompt [here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1317992#cmt1317992)  
Takes place in the same universe as the other works in if you love me, love all of me, but can be read as a standalone. Precedent for those fics mentions SOME memory of Heaven, however minor, and so I broke the prompt a little, but worked with it. A good amount of research went into this, especially the chosen name. See the end notes for more detail.

There is the ringing clang of metal against metal. Aziraphale's newly minted form strains as he blocks the blow from above, flat of his palm against the flat of his blade. His knees don't buckle, but it's a near thing.

“Good!” This shout comes from his opponent, drawing their own long weapon back. “Spread your footing more, you'll absorb the blow better!” The mace pole-arm comes down again, making another abrupt clang as it collides with his short sword. With a twist, his wrist strains to keep the blade from being knocked free, caught in the finials of the mace.

Gritting his teeth, Aziraphale pulls his weapon free, the shift in weight causing his trainer off balance. Seeing the opening, he moves to lay a blow; he's struck backwards, hit in the waist with the blunt end of the pole-arm as it arcs upward. He stumbles, but remains standing, his feet flat on the ground, spread to keep him steady.

“Yes! Just like so!” His trainer appraises, their weapon raised in the space between them. “Keep close to use my long weapon against me! Take advantage of my need to use two hands!”

He's too winded to retort that two hands means harder blows to block. Aziraphale eyes the end of the mace for a moment, then bolts forward, avoiding its arc deftly and wrapping his fist around the length of staff just under the weapon end. He shoves it away, throwing his opponent off balance and swinging at the open target.

His sword lands the same moment that the mace twists in his grip, scraping hard against the inside of his arm. It draws an involuntary gasp from him—he drops the weapon to stumble back. His trainer follows his lead, taking halting steps backwards to drop hard onto their rear, like he has done.

The pair catch their breaths. Aziraphale is pleased to see Hagiel is panting, their hand raised in front of them to end the sparring session. Their hair, a dark gray with iridescent colors underneath, is ruffled around their head.

He drops his sword gracelessly, instead focusing on his forearm. The scrape there is dealt with easily—he places his hand onto the fragile skin and the wound closes quickly.

“Clever little twit,” comes the breathless remark across from him, half laughed. “How'd that work out for you?”

“Surprisingly well,” he says, looking up from his arm, his chuckle equally winded. “I got past your longer weapon, I'll call it a success.”

Across from him, the Cherub laughs, shrugging. “Alright, fair enough. I'll call this a draw.”

“But I landed a blow!”

“I did as well, if you recall,” Hagiel says lightheartedly, finally making it to their feet to offer a hand. Aziraphale takes it, and they pull him upright, examining his inner forearm. “Alright? Good. You're handling the new simplified form fairly well.”

Aziraphale grins, a bit, wiggling his ten thick fingers at them. “Opposable thumbs are astoundingly useful!”

His fellow Cherub snickers gracelessly, the edges of their mouth crinkled upward, filling their cheeks. The Heavenly Touch there resembles freckles, or the new constellations being built—golden spots of varying size, connected by thin shimmering lines. “Sit with me a bit, Aziraphale. We've earned it, I think.”

Together, the pair of them find a quiet place to rest, where they can view the length of the heavens from just slightly above. The twilight colored sky sets gentle shadows that softens the ruffle of Hagiel's pigeon hair and ruffles the feathers of their opalescent wings.

Aziraphale sits just in front of them, as is the custom between the pair. With care, Hagiel begins to groom his wings, ruffled from this new form's inexperience and their sparring session. Their fingers are deft as they set his scapulars to rights.

“What do you think we're training for, anyway?” they ask. Like this, he can't see their face, but he can imagine the little furrow between their eyebrows as they both focus on their work and consider the complex question. “The Almighty has only made good things, and we are created with the knowledge of how to use our weapons, aren't we? Why train?”

Aziraphale never knows how to answer them. He tries, but he knows its pitiful. “Well, I may know how to use my sword, but I wouldn't know how to defend myself with it from a long weapon if not for you. It's probably just best to garner that experience. Be prepared for anything.”

“But for what, do you think?”

“I don't know, Hagiel. I'm not meant to know.”

Hagiel is quiet for a bit, sorting his wings without further comment. Aziraphale wants to cringe. He turns when commanded, and their sky blue eyes stay focused on his axillaries instead of his face.

This happens so often, more and more frequently. He wishes he could give them more.

The next time they speak, it's a little less passionate. A little less open. “Your Archangel is a healer and creator. Yet you're designed as a warrior. That doesn't confuse you?”

Aziraphale sighs and reaches out to begin working on their wings, gently stroking barbs into place. Grooming relaxes him—far more grooming others than being the recipient. It helps his mind slow and work instinctively. “A little, but I feel it'll become clear when I meet him. I'll learn what he needs from me, and from there, I'll sort it out.”

This makes his companion smile a little bit. Their wing stretches further to give him better access.

“Any idea when you'll finally get to meet him face to face?”

He stops, feeling his face lose whatever smile it had traces of. Hagiel immediately stops their work to focus on him, their eyes full of remorse. “Forgive me. I know it upsets you. I wasn't thinking.”

“It's alright,” he says hollowly. “It's just going to be a while, so I try not to think too hard on it.”

They take his hand in both of theirs, squeezing it. “I wish I had your patience. I know it will pay off.”

Aziraphale lets out a breath, lets his shoulders relax. “Turn round. Let me return the favor.”

-

All angels, of every ring, are assigned to an angel of a higher ring, up to the Seraphim. Hagiel, a Cherub, is assigned to Anael, the archangel of the evening star and joy. They have met her privately, a few times, due to their assignment as her Intelligence—her adviser—but you wouldn't know they were hers. Where Anael is a dreamy optimist, her Cherub has far more focus on solving problems. On trying to understand the mechanisms of the Plan, and their place in it.

But the Plan is ineffable. It's unknowable. So when they shoot questions off Aziraphale, he has no answers to give them. He can only believe the Almighty knows what She's doing.

Most Seraphim rarely meet their assigned angels with the exception of Intelligences—they're still far too busy with creating the universe, crafting elements. Aziraphale's only seen his own archangel, Raphael, from a distance, shaping nearby galaxies. He'd watched the Seraph pluck a strand of strawberry red hair from his own wild curls, watched him let it drift on the cosmic winds.

He hopes very much to get the chance to meet the star-maker, but he imagines it will be a long time until then. Seraphim spend every moment of their time creating for Her, singing for Her, and it is presumed they will do so until the chosen World is created.

The exception to this is Lucifer. He is Anael's counterpart—the brilliant morning star to her twinkling evening star. Where she works in the quiet evening light, her joy calming and peaceful, Lucifer's eyes burn with passion, enthusiasm, as he heralds sunlight into the heavens.

(These are the faces of Joy in all its aspects. Serene bliss versus effervescent, infectious light.)

The Morning Star, in his desire to share his joy with the beings around him, has no qualms setting aside Seraphic duties to meet starry-eyed angels from all Circles. It isn't unexpected to see him sitting just above a group of angels, like he's teaching them. He talks with authority, with unconstrained excitement, his hands gesturing and gesticulating with an energy that borders on frantic.

Aziraphale has never been much good in groups. His form, the one under this simplified form all angels take when with each other, chafes and rubs up against other essences—or perhaps it's just in his own head, how his feathers stand on end and he closes in on himself, pulls in his senses to try to cope. Whatever the case, being in gatherings make him feel overstimulated, overwhelmed, and so he doesn't attend Lucifer's frequent meetings.

Hagiel, though, leaps to every invitation, their attention rapt on his hands, his words, his face. They hover at his side when they can, as though made for him instead of their true archangel. After sparring sessions, when they sit and talk together, Hagiel tells Aziraphale about the things they learn, the way Lucifer speaks.

It makes Aziraphale feel... uncomfortable, he would suppose. It isn't that he's uneasy, or that he questions Hagiel's decisions. It is more that he can't understand all the questions they have, the complex thoughts fitting of an Intelligence. He worries at his lower lip as they gesture, eyes bright, and wonders if, perhaps, they will find him boring.

He's never meant to be in those circles, he thinks. Not meant to be in the crowds, listening and thinking so freely. His thoughts are careful, intimate things—he keeps to himself, keeps his thoughts in his own head.

It doesn't surprise him when he begins to see them less, and less. After all, they're so much smarter than him. They're going to do important things, they're going to _be _important. Of course they should spend time with important angels.

He very much hopes that it makes them happy.

-

“Hagiel!” Aziraphale calls, out of breath from half running through the cosmos. He's finally spotted their pigeon-gray hair, its purple and green underlights shimmering as they come to a halt at the sound of their name. They half turn to face him, and he nearly barrels them over in a rather over-exuberant hug.

They stagger, trying to catch their balance, their own arms carefully looping Aziraphale's back and hands resting below his wings. His feathers are twitching, fluttering with excitement. “I figured it out!” he exclaims, head still tucked against their own. “She gave me my official assignment, I know why I'm assigned to Raphael now!”

When he pulls back, his smile is wide, bright with energy. He's so eager to share this with them, to give them this answer. They were, after all, the one to ask him questions, and he's never had _answers_ before. “She's assigning him to the Garden as soon as it's complete, and I'm to join him! He's going to tend to the plants and creatures, and I'm to guard the Garden!”

Hagiel matches his smile with their own, their cheek patterns warping with the motion. Their bright blue eyes don't quite meet his; rather, they seem to be distracted. Perhaps a bit distant. They blink, and focus slides back into their gaze, studying Aziraphale's expression.

Their head tilts to the side as they ask, thoughtful, “What do you need to guard it from?”

Aziraphale pauses. He thinks on this, feeling, already, a touch sheepish, for another question he can't answer. Still, he gives it a try. “I'm not sure. Maybe there will be beasts outside of Eden? Or, perhaps, the other creatures besides Her Chosen aren't sentient, and they may need a firm hand.”

His smile widens again. Yes, that seems right, he thinks. There aren't other threats, in any case, so he feels certain of his conclusions. Hagiel, for their part, takes this response without further prodding, which he thinks is a good sign.

“That's wonderful, Aziraphale,” they say, glancing over their shoulder briefly. “I'm pleased you've gotten your assignment, and that you're pleased with it.” When they look back to him, the smile they've been trying to keep on their face slips off. “I myself have been feeling... stifled. Would you walk with me?”

For a moment—just a moment—Aziraphale feels something akin to anxiety. He examines it briefly, decides to label it as concern, and takes Hagiel's arm to loop in his own, to walk with them. For a short while, he allows them to gather their thoughts, and then asks, cautious, “Is everything alright?”

Hagiel is quiet, looking off and away, before they say, a bit uncertain, “I'm not sure.” Their honesty seems to surprise them—they turn to look at him, gauge his reaction. When all they find is increasing empathetic worry, the Cherub continues, incredibly carefully, “There's a disquiet. Some of us are feeling confused. Grasping to find out what we're meant to be doing, if we aren't Her Chosen. What's our purpose, then? Our duty?”

Aziraphale places his hand on the arm looped on his. He tries for a comforting smile, knowing it's weak. “I'm sure the Almighty has answers,” he offers, because he knows he doesn't. “It's just not meant for us to see. Ineffable, you know?”

It's apparently not the answer Hagiel's looking for. They grimace, lips pulling back to reveal pearly white teeth, ground together. “Don't I deserve to know my own destiny? I want--” Hagiel pauses, brows furrowed together, before beginning again, more controlled. “I don't enjoy feeling as though my choices and my purpose are being held out of my reach. I want to know what's _meant_ for me.”

Aziraphale halts, letting his counterpart step away from him, his own arms pulling into his chest to twist his fingers together. “Hagiel,” he begins, haltingly, struggling with several false starts before managing to continue. “Did Lucifer cause you to feel this way?”

“My feelings are my _own_, Aziraphale,” the angel snaps sharply, making him flinch into himself. “I'm just not the only one feeling this way. Others feel the same, including him.”

He swallows, looking away from their face, their piercing blue eyes, angry and cold. “Apologies. I just... worry.”

He worries about them. He worries about Lucifer, always surrounded by more and more angels, passionate eyes bright and filled with something that doesn't always seem correct, doesn't seem Good. He worries about the divide that seems to exist between himself and his friend—the distance that just keeps growing.

He worries.

“Don't,” Hagiel says. He looks up and meets their gaze. It's softened from its sharp edge, but there's a firmness, a determination there. “Be glad you know your purpose. I'm going to find mine.”

-

He pries his blade out of a lesser angel's chest, watching with numb horror as they reel back and stumble, their scream short and unfamiliar. Pain is new, there's a numbness to his right leg as he forces it to move forward. He's never experienced anything like this before—he never knew his training would be used against his own stock. He'd be sick if he understood the concept of it.

The War is dizzying, is endless. More than that, it's confusing, the cause of it not clear. All he'd been told before a sword was shoved into his hand was that angels were rebelling, but what did that mean? What was a _rebellion_? Who had caused it?

Though, he thinks, turning to the center of the battlefield, he already knows the answer to that second question.

There, on the fringes of the existing heavens, Michael and Lucifer are locked together in combat that looks more like a dance than a battle. Lucifer's moves are graceful against his sister's direct strikes—he focuses on dodging, on windows of opportunity.

His leg throbbing, Aziraphale starts to make his way across the field of toppled angels. He can see from here the golden sheen of Michael's blade, the unsteady sway of Lucifer's steps. It's only a matter of time, if he can make it to them the odds will turn ever more in Michael's favor, he is almost--

An angel stands in his path, their long mace held out, a barrier between Aziraphale and the end of this endless, endless War.

The angel is Hagiel.

Aziraphale freezes, and Time doesn't yet exist in a manner that can be stopped, but the rest of the field seems very still and quiet, save for the space between two Cherubs. He sees the way Hagiel's chest heaves, and it seems loud in his ears. He sees the faint trembling of their long weapon; it's impossible to know if it's from hesitation, or fear, or exertion, adrenaline.

Their face looks different—the eyes, stark blue, are wide and wild, locked on his own slate gray gaze. He realizes, belatedly, that the golden constellation across their face has been warped and changed from spatters of golden ichor.

Neither of them move to initiate, and neither are interrupted from this frozen gaze, this locked moment. Maybe it's meant to be this private, this strangely intimate, because Aziraphale knows, at the same moment Hagiel does, that this is why the Cherubs are trained.

This is why Angels are trained for battle.

It's to face each other.

Aziraphale realizes many things, in this locked fraction of a memory and the present.

He knows, here, he is meant to raise his sword and bring it down against their mace, to knock it from their hands. He knows he's meant to swipe hard at their exposed chest, incapacitate them. He also knows he doesn't stand a chance of winning this fight. Hagiel has trained him. Hagiel has won, always.

More than that, Aziraphale knows he doesn't want to try.

Something in his perception of the world seems to shift slightly—he feels unbalanced, wrong, when he glances at the blade in his hand. He thinks it shouldn't be there—he's not supposed to be this. He's not supposed to be a warrior, trying to fight his own kind.

He thinks, maybe, when he looks back to Hagiel, his grip on his weapon loose, that they see it shift with him. Something in his nature becomes unaffixed at the seams, detached, and there's something in their eyes, like they watch it drift away from his core, before their eyes lock back onto him, brows wrinkled together, upward.

What is that expression? What does it mean? They look lost, uncertain, the grip of their long handle shaking more noticeably.

They open their mouth, and the scene falls back into motion, like a puzzle piece sliding back into its slot.

There is an awful, heaven-shattering scream behind Hagiel; they turn sharply, back to Aziraphale. He follows their gaze, and the pair of them are witness to Michael's blade being torn from her brother's chest, replaced with the sharp point of her heel, knocking him backward.

Lucifer falls, screaming and screaming, and he _keeps_ falling, and _Falling_, writhing as his form burns in countless newly-created gasses and elements, corroding his edges, setting his golden hair aflame.

He's there, and gone, his screams still in the air of the battlefield, warped at the edges. It's all that can be heard for a small eternity, freezing all the ethereal beings in place at the horror, at this new unknown, this new _thing._

The ringing becomes fainter, and the first to move is Hagiel. They scream, an echo of their leader's agonized wail, and throw their whole body in the direction of Michael, their mace already whipping through the air. She turns at the noise, throws her blade up to parry the swing.

Like that, the two are locked in combat, Michael's direct swings blocking Hagiel's wild, enraged swipes with calm ease. Aziraphale watches, distantly aware that he's shaking, before he turns his back to the pair and limps away, his grip on his blade tightening again. He'll fight anyone, anyone else.

Behind him, he hears another agonized scream, twisted at the edges.

He refuses to look.

-

Heaven changes when the War ends, in more ways than one. The balance is deeply shifted; angels are reassigned to make up for the loss of Seraphim, Cherubim, and all other forms of higher ethereal power. To prevent strain on the remains of the higher Spheres, the system is organized to put more angels under the authority of one Virtue, or Power. More Virtues are put under the authority of one Archangel, Anael. And so on.

(The Virtues were originally assigned to Raphael. We'll come to that.)

Questioning is no longer considered wise—the concept of thinking for oneself becomes taboo. There is a new danger to it, a consequence, as the remains of Heaven peek over to witness their writhing counterparts burning, angry and empty and entirely alone in their pain. _Look_, they learn, _look at what happens when you demand knowledge you're not meant to have._

Aziraphale is reassigned to Gabriel as the dust settles. He greets the Archangel with a nod, a greeting, and knows better than to ask why. He is, after all, a smart enough Cherub, to know the danger behind _questions. _

More than that, he can draw conclusions.

(There is a theorem in mathematics. If A equals B, and B equals C, then A must also equal C. All results are the same, and are therefore interchangeable. To have one result, is to have them all.)

If Aziraphale has been reassigned to Gabriel, it is because something has happened to Raphael. He does not pursue the matter further. He doesn't need to.

(A equals B.)

And then Aziraphale takes up his assignment at the finished Garden to watch the humans.

And then Aziraphale finds the demon that used to be his angel.

(B equals C.)

And then Aziraphale knows why he was assigned to him.

(A equals C.)

-

Much, much, much later, millennia later, in a cozy back room of a newly opened bookshop, Aziraphale says to Crowley, two bottles of wine in and the sight of the demon very slightly fuzzy at the edges, “I do hope that I'm not, encroaching, if I ask. Can I ask?”

“Ask what?” Crowley is stretched out across the length of Aziraphale's settee (it is still new. It will stay there for two centuries, burn in a fire, and miraculously reform one day later, still perfectly fitted to the shape of his long, thin body). He's got the bowl of the wine glass cupped in his fingers, the stem of it between the large knuckles of his index and middle finger. “Can't know it's bad unless you do it, angel.”

He says this casually, as though completely unaware of the irony of him, the Serpent of Eden, saying such a thing. Aziraphale smiles, but even with the wine, he can feel the edges of his mouth tightly pressed together. “Questions are a bit bad, where I'm from.”

The demon's face shutters a bit, like a shadow passes over his golden eyes. He takes a long drink from his wine glass, emptying it, before he sits up to reach for the bottle, the tension in his brow and cheeks dropping away into gentleness. “S'alright, Aziraphale. I won't tell anyone. Go on.”

Like this, Aziraphale can understand how Eve listened to that soft voice, careful, intimate and painfully honest._ You can't know it's bad unless you do it. I won't tell anyone. I promise. Go on. It's alright._ He knows it's a demon, and demons are liars, and they don't keep their word, but if anyone could convince people otherwise, it would be Crowley, because he sounds like he means it. Because he _does_.

He means it.

The angel stares into the depths of his glass, letting the red reflection of his nose and cheeks spin, round and round. “It's just, I wonder sometimes,” he begins, nervous, halting. “If you remember much from before the—from before.”

“Before I fell? S'that all, angel?”

He looks up, meeting Crowley's eyes, startled to find the crooked smile that only ever seems to appear when they're at least a bottle deep. He doesn't look at all upset or angry, like Aziraphale expected, and it's enough to make him relax incrementally into his wingback chair.

“Took you long enough, I s'pose,” the lounging man continues, slouching back into the arm of the settee and placing his free hand behind his head, the other sloshing his wine slightly. He seems unbothered by the subject, if perhaps a little distant, as he recollects his thoughts. Aziraphale waits, rapt, eyes drifting from those serpentine eyes staring into the middle distance to those long, squared off fingers, barely holding the wine glass and yet still, holding it steady.

“Not much, to be honest,” he begins, pinching the muscle of one cheek upwards in concentration. “I know I made stars, you know? I mean, I _know_, I know which ones were mine, still.” The wine on his glass sloshes in small circles as his wrist flexes softly. “I know, er, my ranking. Not the name though. If I'm honest, though, you'n I can probly guess it. Only so many to pick from.”

He shrugs. “It's bits and pieces, really,” Crowley says, nonchalant, sipping his glass again. Aziraphale watches his throat bob with each swallow. “Know I probly mouthed off too much. Too bloody curious for my own good,” he snickers. “Character fault, ehn? N' Lucifer and his buddies all were like that, they asked a lot of questions too. So I ended up in the masses, right at the end, there.”

He seems so calm. Aziraphale retreats into the back of his chair, because he's drunk, and nervous, and he can't stop the flow of curiosity falling out of him but he knows he's going to ruin this somehow.

“Did you fight?” He swallows. “Do you remember?”

(_Look at what happens when you demand knowledge you're not meant to have._)

(_Go on. It's alright._)

“Nah,” he says, draining the rest of his glass and setting it onto the center table to shuffle a bit, to fold his other arm under his head, seeming comfortable. “Never been much for fighting, you know me.”

He's staring into that middle distance again, slightly squinting, like he's trying to discern something in thick fog. “I think,” he starts, then trails off, mouth a thin line, brows furrowed together. When he begins again, it's quieter.

“I think I might've. Asked Her. What _was_ it?” This last bit is hissed, more to himself than to Aziraphale, and then he says haltingly, trying to put together the vestiges of a broken mirror that he doesn't have all the pieces to.

“Something about the Plan. Something about if She knew, if this was always going to be a part of it. And--”

His hand pulls from behind his head to press the pads of his fingers to his hairline, rubbing into it fiercely.

“Something about me? I don't know. I don't remember. She said. Something. I don't know what. I think it was important. But I...”

He pulls his hand back to look at it, turning it, examining it as though it's the first time he's ever seen it. Then, with a little flourish (a wrist flicking, the long curled digits spreading, like imitating a small explosion) he finishes, “then I Fell.”

For a period of time, the only noise that fills the sudden wide gap between them is the ticking of a clock somewhere in the shop. Aziraphale stares into his glass once more, suddenly too ashamed to bear looking at whatever expression has overtaken Crowley's face in this horrible moment of intimacy. He feels invasive, cold. His reflection is a murky copy of himself, stained red and wobbly,

He remembers Lucifer's scream. He remembers Hagiel's.

He feels—sometimes he feels that if he thinks about the War too much, he'll never _stop_. And he's dragged them both back into the worst window of time in their lives.

“I'm sorry, my dear,” he finally says, nearly cringing at how flimsy it is, how pathetic and useless this apology is in the scheme of the damage done. “Truly. I shouldn't have prodded, I know it's not at all pleasant memories.”

“Understatement of the millennium, angel,” Crowley says, forcing a tone of nonchalance and teasing. He settles into his seat, and when Aziraphale finally looks up, Crowley meets his gaze firmly. “S'alright. Don't really regret Falling, not really.”

He shuts his eyes and tilts his head back, adding offhandedly, “Probly wouldn't have met you, if I hadn't Fallen.”

(A equals C.)

Aziraphale smiles, feeling the forced pinch of it hurting his cheeks. “Who knows.”

-

He first sees them at the airfield. Six thousand years can make the memory fuzzy, so it takes a moment, maybe two, to recognize the stark blue eyes under hair that's gone raven black. Their eyes alight on him and there's no recognition in the gaze. Perhaps he can't blame them—after all, the demon Prince is under a good amount of stress, and the main emotions expressed at the postponed apocalypse are aggravation and irritation.

There is some incredible irony, Aziraphale thinks, waving a little at their superiors, that Crowley's handler is _them_—things always manage to come full circle, somehow.

The same people, the same faces, a little different, a different framing, but somehow, it always connects together, he thinks, when he laces his hand into Crowley's when they sit together on a bus to London. It's unlikely, ineffable, yet it feels so intentional. The world's a funny thing.

When Aziraphale sees them again, after being bodily dragged into Hell in a body that isn't his own, he's grateful at least that he's been granted the clemency to keep Crowley's sunglasses. He's certain his eyes would reveal his reaction to Beelzebub's pitch hair gone wild and knotted, to their constellation freckles gone mottled with sores. His tongue feels like cotton in his mouth. Not for the first time since he's been on Earth, since being friends with a demon for some six thousand years, he wonders--

He wonders if the Fallen demons had deserved their suffering. He remembers, still, the screaming and the writhing, all for wanting to know their purpose. Was that warranted? That agony? And he knows that Hell's response to this pain was to become angry and cruel, as though that excuses their punishment. As though they've _earned_ the initial torture through their actions since then.

It doesn't sit well on his skin, when Aziraphale remembers Hagiel's soft, firm gaze. _Be glad you know your purpose. I'm going to find mine._

Was this their purpose?

Beelzebub's face is lined with an indescribable fear at the sight of him, in Crowley's body, drying off with a clean white towel. It's an achingly familiar expression—it's the same one they wore on the battlefield, standing across from him, their weapon shaking in their hands as they watched him.

(He's thought about that expression more than once, since then. He realizes, shaking off the last of the holy water on Crowley's fingers, what it says. _I don't know what to do about you,_ that face says. _I don't, I don't. Please, just get out of my way, so I don't have to face this the way I know I'm meant to. Please. Just go._)

Aziraphale doesn't know why any of this has happened the way that is has. He doesn't know if angels were always meant to fall; if humans were always meant to fail. He doesn't know if that was all written, all planned by Her, and he can't at all fathom the purpose for it, not when he sees the loss written on bodies, written into memories.

But here's what he thinks, what little he knows; what he would tell Hagiel if they were still with him now, asking him _why? Why is it like this? What's the purpose of all of it?_ Here is the thing Aziraphale feels certain of, watching Beelzebub's back when they flee his shop after begging to know how to keep an angel from Falling--

It's a way to Love, he thinks. It's always, always, been a way to Love. Love is the choice; Love is the purpose. It defies the rules that have been structured, and those rules are perhaps there for Love to defy.

Why else would angels and demons who spend too much time on Earth find it in each other?

It's always Love.

**Author's Note:**

> Beelzebub was associated with Hesperus, the evening star, to compare with Lucifer's status of morning star. Both “stars” are Venus. Therefore, I did research on angels associated with Venus and the evening star, and found a short list. Anael (Also known as Haniel) is considered the Archangel of Venus, and was a contender for the name, but I was determined to keep Beelzebub a Cherub in reference to late Christian literature. Hagiel IS the canonical Intelligence of Anael, and I was sold. Especially when I asked a friend who had no context and they said “Hagiel sounds kinda more like a feral goblin child”. How could I say no to that.
> 
> Learn more about Beelzebub's role in literature and religion [here](https://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Beelzebub)
> 
> [also here's some doodles I made for this work. ](https://imgur.com/yMghb4j)
> 
> Lucifer convinces a bunch of angels to rebel by singing Independent Together with Beelzebub I dont take constructive criticism


End file.
